


cut him up, boy

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Andy's trying to be cool about the whole thing, he really is.</i> Post-Rotterdam '09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut him up, boy

Andy's trying to be cool about the whole thing, he really is. Take the trophy, smile, yeah, it's great, great victory, he loves Rotterdam and everyfuckingthing about it. Poor Rafa, with his fucking injured fucking knee. Because obviously, you know, that's the only way he could bagel Rafa. Rafa's stupid fucking knees, Jesus, why doesn't he just fucking retire. Smiling, waving, the silver plate cold between his fingers.

The smile lasts just as long as it takes to get into the locker room. Someone takes the plate away for the press pictures later and someone else says _Andy, half an hour before the press, yes?_ and Andy says sure, yeah, whatever, because he's too busy carving half-moons into his palms with his fists clenched against the blind volcanic rage boiling under the surface of his skin. Across the locker room Rafa fucking Nadal is stripping the tape away from his knees, revealing the pale vulnerable skin underneath. Andy looks down and away and when he looks back, he catches only Rafa's bare slick back as he heads off to the shower.

Andy waits a minute. A minute more. The locker room is empty, silent except for the hiss of the shower. His body feels like a clenched fist.

When he rips open the shower stall, Rafa is turned away from him, both palms braced against the tiles while the spray beats on his downcast head. His eyes are dark and wide when he turns, shocked; _Andy, what -?_ and Andy says, _I fucking beat you_, and Rafa says, _of course you did, yes_, and Andy says, _I've had about enough of your fucking - your fucking diplomatic bullshit, okay? I fucking killed you out there_ \- and he realises that the hand he's raised is trembling, actually fucking trembling - _okay? So you can drop the fucking nice-guy act, yeah?_

Rafa turns around fully then, and he reaches out and grabs Andy by the t-shirt, drags him and spins him and crowds him roughly against the slick tile wall, cold and hard against his back. _What you want, Andy? You want me to be the bad guy?_ This is what it would be like to get up close to Rafa Nadal on court, Andy thinks, this dark fierce intent. The fingers curled into Andy's t-shirt are white at the knuckle. Rafa pulls him away from the wall a little bit and shoves him back again, so that Andy's head bumps against the tile, a shock that brings with it the sharper, unexpected shock of arousal, uncurling in his belly where Rafa's hard body presses close, making a damp patch on Andy's clothes. Rafa's eyes are black, the lashes beaded with droplets of water. The shower is deafening. They are both breathing hard.

_You want me to be the bad guy, Andy?_ Rafa snarls.

And Andy says, _are you going to fucking touch me, or what?_


End file.
